by G. M. Ford
"I need something from your end," I said.
"What's that?" He didn't like the sound of this.
"Can you check recent water samples from that whole section of Snohomish County?"
"Easy."
"Do it."
"Why?"
"Just might give you part of the probably cause you need."
"All right. I'll start on it as soon as I get off the phone."
He lowered his voice. "Listen, Mr. Waterman, get us something solid here. This is a governmental agency. I don't know how much attention you pay to politics, but the last couple of administrations have not been wildly supportive of our efforts. They've tied our hands in ways you wouldn't believe. These days, we need a smoking gun before we can actually do anything. Unless we actually catch somebody with his dick out, our hands are tied. Suspicions won't do it. By the time we're allowed to take action, the damage is long since done."
"I understand," I said.
"And, Mr. Waterman - "
"Yes?"
"Two things."
"Go ahead."
"One, stay away from whatever it is you find. If it's serious enough to kill over, it probably has negative long-range health consequences. Don't touch it; don't breathe it; stay away from it."
"I understand." Silence. "And two?"
"You're about to disappear from today's phone log. We never had this conversation." He hung up.
I went looking for the boys. Not at the rooming house. Not at the Zoo. They hadn't been seen at the Zoo for a couple of days. I headed downtown.
It didn't take long. On my first pass, I spotted George lounging in the doorway of a furniture warehouse three doors down from Save the Earth. He had the door open before the truck had come to a complete stop. His eyes were clear. He smelled of bay rum.
"Jesus, Leo. Where you been?" he demanded.
"Laying low, George."
"No shit," he said grimly. "I sent Ralph up to your place to look for you yesterday morning and the cops nabbed him. Questioned him for an hour before they finally let him go."
"He's okay, I hope."
"Yeah," George smiled. "Good thing it was Ralph. If he did know anything, he probably forgot." The smile widened. "He went into Harold's seizure act; did it almost as good. Scared the shit out of them. They drove him all the way home. Even walked him upstairs." Before I could comment, he continued. "There's something going on, Leo. Something big."
"What makes you say that?"
"Lots of activity around the building. They didn't panhandle at all this weekend. Every night a whole bunch of them have been getting dressed up in dark clothes and going out."
"How many's a whole bunch?" I asked.
"Four. Five. Caroline's been going with them."
"Interesting. Any idea what they're up to?"
"Whatever it is, it takes gasoline."
"How's that? They been driving a lot?"
"Nope. They been buying gas cans at every surplus store downtown."
Now I was worried. Two deaths later, I was finally getting into what Tim Flood had hired me to do, and I didn't have time for it. Whatever they were up to would have to wait.
First thing this morning, I'd called Daniel Dixon and made arrangements to pick him up at the Last Stand at one o'clock. Maybe I should have let Charles Hayden and the EPA handle the map work. Maybe . . .
George bailed me out. "We got it covered, Leo. By tomorrow, we'll know where they're going every night." A shiver ran down my spine.
"I want you guys out of it, George. We don't' need another killing."
"Too late, Leo. There's too many guys involved now."
"What guys? Harold and Ralph - "
George stopped me. "All the guys. We've got all the street people mobilized. They heard about Buddy and want to help. He hesitated. "Which reminds me, we need some more money. Me and Harold and Ralph already gave away all the cash you gave us - " He stopped again. "Buddy's share too," he said quietly. "We need more money." He held up both hands. Scout's honor. "Believe me, Leo, ain't nobody spending it on booze, but folks gotta eat, especially when they ain't drinking. Lots of bus fare too."
"Tell me about it."
"We followed ‘em the first night as far as up to the market."
"On foot/"
"We only had twelve guys the first night."
"Only twelve? How many have you got now?"
"If you count Mary and Earlene, thirty-seven."
"Thirty-seven? Who in hell told you to go out and hire thirty-seven - " George reached for the door handle.
"It ain't about you no more, Leo. It's about Buddy." He eyed me levelly. "Keep your money, Leo. We don't need it." He started to get out. I stopped him.
"Okay, okay, tell me the rest of it." He left the door open.
"Well," he said., "Saturday night we had maybe twenty guys. We stationed them from where we lost them at the market all the way up to Denny. But they didn't go that far. They cut down toward Westlake."
"How do you know they're not driving all the way to Canada, for Chrissake? This is the dumbest - "
George looked hurt. "Hey, Leo, we many be drunks, but we're not stupid. All these years working for you, we learned a few things. Soon as they started acting weird, we checked the odometers in the vans. It's the same every night. First night when they came back, they left the van unlocked. We checked the mileage. Ten miles round trip." He looked sheepish. "Second night, that was Sunday, they locked up all the vans. We couldn't see in. Norman had to kick in a window." He shrugged. "Ten miles again."
"Go on."
"Anyway," he continued, "last night we had a whole shitload of people. We started up on Westlake and stationed everybody all the way up over the University Bridge."
"And?" He had me going now.
"And they crossed the bridge and turned right. That's where we lost them. I used the last of the money this morning to get a shave and a haircut so I could take a cab along the same route. I made the driver check the mileage. It's four and a half miles from here to the other side of the University Bridge. Wherever they're going can't be much more than half a mile away."
He folded his hands in his lap and waited. I noticed then that he had a minor case of the shakes. He picked up on it.
"We're okay, Leo. A little shaky maybe, but we'll live. Hell," he added, "Ralph's beginning to form complete sentences. Who knows, another week on the wagon, he might even make sense."
"Close the door," I said.
George pulled it to. "Where we going?" he asked. "I told Norman I'd meet him and some of the others. We were gonna start walking up there early. It's a long ways. We're out of bus money, so I figured we'd better - "
"We're going to get you some money," I answered. "Where's the nearest phone booth?"
"Far end of the second lot." He pointed south. I wheeled us down to the pay phone and left George in the truck. I called Tim Flood. Frankie answered.
"Frankie, it's Leo."
"It's about time we heard from you. Tim don't like to be paying people he don't hear from." I didn't have time for the speech.
"The shit's about to hit the fan, Frankie." Always professional, Frankie cut the shit. "Wadda you need? You need the twins?"
"Maybe later on the twins. Right now I need money."
"How much. Where to?"
"Two grand. I'll send somebody."
"Gimme a half hour."
"His name's George Paris."
"One of your bums?"
"You should hire such good bums, Frankie. He'll be there in a half hour. He needs it in cash."
"No problem."
"Something else, Frankie."
"What's that?"
"I'll do what I was hired to do, but - "
"I know you will, Leo." I could feel his smugness through the phone.
"This thing has branched out. I'm attracting some serious heat."
"Professional or official?" he asked quickly.
"Official."
"No sweat."
"I may have to tell them who I'm working for."
"do what you have to, Leo. It's not a problem."
"You may be getting some visitors."
He stopped me. "Fat chance, Leo. You just take care of the girl."
"One more thing."
"What now?"
I told him what I needed done and why.
"It's in trust. We can't take it back."
"Can you tie it up?"
"I'm sure the legal eagles can arrange something."
"Do it," I said.
He hung up in my ear.
Once back in the truck, I fished a twenty out of my wallet and handed it to George. "Cab fare," Is aid. I wrote Tim's address on a piece of paper and handed it over. "Go to this address. Ask for Frankie. He's got two thousand dollars for you." George eyed the address.
"This Frankie wouldn't be Frankie Ortega, would it?"
"In the flesh."
"You have interesting friends, Leo."
"Look who's talking." We yukked it up together.
I checked my watch. Noon, straight up.
"I need to go, George." He started to get out. I stopped him. "First off, George don't let anybody take any chances. Stay safe." He nodded. "Secondly, be careful with the money. Some of these people, you know," I stammered, "when they've got their pockets full, you know . . ."
"I know," he said sliding out the door. He stopped. "This is for Buddy, Leo. But" - he held up a finger - "whenever this is over, there's going to be one hell of a party." I didn't doubt it.
Chapter 19
Fifty yards from the crest, we went out of control. I kept it floored. Letting up would have meant backing the rig two miles down the mountain. The roar of the big V-8 was lost in the cacophony of shuddering and vibrating going on in the camper behind us, as everything that wasn't screwed down shook loose and blindly obeyed the laws of gravity.
Again the truck desperately fought for traction, the tires spinning wildly in the loose dust, nearly grinding us to a halt one moment, then suddenly finding a purchase and pitching us randomly forward the next. I fought the wheel, trying to keep the truck centered on the narrow dirt road.
With only the left rear wheel providing intermittent traction, the truck refused to run true. Instead, as if remote-controlled, it angled us steadily toward the steep, wooded gully ten feet to our right. Daniel's boots indented the dash as he braced himself for the seemingly inevitable ride down the gully. His hat had fallen to the floor. He left it there. He kept his eyes straight ahead. We surged forward again, bouncing off the cut bank, showering the hood with earth and debris, crawling upward toward the top.
Thirty yards from the top, after a particularly nasty fishtail, the right rear wheel slipped completely over the edge. For an instant, the camper was still as it rocked and squeaked on its springs and then, in slow motion, began the inexorable slide into the dark woods.
Mindlessly, both Daniel and I shifted our weight to the left, as if that was going to help. The sound of rocks scraping on the frame filled the cab. I kept it floored.
Suddenly the drive wheel, as it passed over the berm of the road, found solid ground and again rocketed us up and forward.
"Go. Go. Go," Daniel chanted as the truck picked up speed.
The speedometer read fifty-five. We were going maybe ten. The temperature gauge was pinned in the red.
"Go. Go. Go - "
I kept the wheel crimped all the way to the left as we lurched forward. It was like driving on ice. The road leveled out. We picked up momentum. The last part, backlit by the sky, was straight up.
In the last ten yards, the forest disappeared. Blue sky and fast-moving high clouds filled the windshield. I could hear my gear against the back of the camper. We bolted over the top.
We were three rows into the new planting before I slid to at stop. I didn't have to turn the truck off. It stalled on its own. The rapidly cooling engine ticked and groaned. My hands were cramped to the wheel. I broke them loose and shook them out. A mantle of dust settled around us.
"Trees," Daniel said through the silence.
"Little trees," I confirmed.
We sat stupidly staring at a narrow forty-acre clear-cut. Symmetrical rows of four-foot Douglas fir seedling stretched like a scar across the ridge toward the northern horizon. Only the ridge had been cut and replanted. The nearly vertical sides of the mountain shimmered blue-green, untouched.
Daniel, needing a way to control his shaking hands, stretched one of bobby Warren's maps tightly across his lap. He locked his index finger on the yellow highlighted area. I leaned over. The notation read "6-9."
Several days in Patsy's cooler had loosened the bond between the yellow ink and the paper. Most of the yellow had transferred itself to Daniel's finger. He was concentrating too hard to notice.
Slowly swiveling his head around at the surrounding country in all four directions, he finally announced, "This is right. This is what's marked."
We got out together. The wind from the south slapped and wrapped the huge map up around Daniel's torso, forcing him to stuff it back inside the truck. He walked over to the nearest tree. I tagged along.
Taking the nearest branch in his hand, he ground the needles between his thumb and his yellowed forefinger. "Healthy as hell," he said. "Maybe four years old."
I tried it myself. He was right. No signs of disease. The needles were pliant and firmly locked onto the branches. Confusion settled over me. I don't know what I'd been expecting. Maybe steaming open pits of noxious waste bubbling to the surface. I wasn't sure. Whatever I'd had in mind, this pastoral example of excellent land use sure as hell wasn't it.
Before I could collect my thoughts, Daniel said, "Let's walk it."
He took one side. I took the other. The cut was maybe two hundred yards wide and half a mile long. We methodically walked the perimeter, each of us occasionally venturing a few rows into the planting, our solitary footprints the only blemishes in the neatly furrowed rows. Each little tree had the biodegraded remnants of a plastic tape around its base. A couple were in good enough condition to make it obvious that they'd once said something, but none were good enough to read.
I had about given up when Daniel and I met up at the far end.
"Nice planting job," he said. "One of the nicest I've seen."
"That's what I was thinking."
"Planted in June of eighty-nine," he said casually. I was in no mood for Holmesian deductions. My fear and frustration boiled to the surface.
"Did you sniff the dirt or something, Daniel? Is this some miraculous dating technique known only to indigenous peoples?"
He smiled and reached in his pocket. "Naw. I found this piece of the Everett Herald half buried in the ground a ways back. It was between two rocks. Kept it out of the weather."
He produced a yellowed piece of battered newsprint from his pocket and handed it over. Sure enough, barely legible, at the top of the page. June sixteenth, 1989.
"So, maybe the notations are dates."
"That's what I'm thinking," he replied. We were hell on the obvious.
We mulled this over in silence, as we picked our way back to the truck. By the time we'd gotten all four maps unfolded, the inside of the truck was full; we could no longer see one another.
"What's the oldest date you've got on yours?" I asked.
"Four-dash-eight," he replied after a great deal of rustling.
"I've got a seven-dash-seven," I said.
"What's the newest?"
We rustled, folded, refolded, and cursed for several minutes. Finally Daniel announced, "I've got a nine-dash-one. That's last month."
"Newer than anything I've got," I said finally.
"New or old?" he asked.
"I don't know. What do you think?"
"New's only a few miles up the road."
"Let's try that one," I said, starting the truck.
It took another five minutes of folding, cursing, and refolding the maps before I could see out the windshield.
Everything was the same. Logging road twenty-eight-dash-two-five was, to all intents and purposes, the same rutted track from which we'd just descended. Not as steep, but nearly as ugly. The truck, burdened by the top-heavy times threatening to topple completely over. No sweat. After our last ride, this one was a walk in the park.
Everything was the same. Newly planted ridge. Smaller trees.
"Well," started Daniel, "we were right about dates."
"Still got the little orange plastic tapes from the base of the nearest seedling. I handed it to Daniel. "Greenside Up, Everett, Washington," he read.
"It's a start."
"That's one of ours all right," he said, turning the little orange ribbon over in his fingers. "I hope you didn't damage the tree getting it off. They're quite delicate when they're this young."
I assured him we hadn't damaged the little buggers. His name was Herb Stratton. Sole proprietor of Greenside Up. He was short and slim. Not skinny, but incredibly wiry and athletic. A pared-down pile of bone and sinew. He'd compensated for his totally bald pate by growing a black, bushy Smith Brothers beard. Four earrings in his right ear. His age was anybody's guess. He could have been twenty-five or he could have been fifty-five. There wasn't enough of his face showing to tell. Only the twinkling blue eyes.
"What else can you tell us from the ribbon?" I asked.
"Everything. I keep it all on the computer." A Macintosh flickered gray on the desk behind him.
"Would you look this one up for us?"
"Don't need to." I thought maybe he was smiling behind all the hair.
"It was the last job we did .only finished about three weeks ago."
"Nice work," said Daniel.
"A no-brainer," Stratton replied.
"Why's that?" I asked.
"We only had to replant the ridge. The tribe's one of the few timber owners who have any sense of decent land use. Unlike most of them, they've got more sense than to screw up the drainage and the fishery. They leave the slopes alone. It's the slopes that are a killer to replant."
I started to speak, but he anticipated my question. "You've never lived till you've hand-planted some of those slopes, man. A dozen men can barely manage four acres a day." He shuddered visibly. "This one" - he waved the orange ribbon - "we did the better part of forty acres in a day and a half. It was like that on all of them."